


Good Boy

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [46]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1997: Turnbull and Dief have a light sort of adventure in Chicago.  After MotB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [podfic_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/podfic_lover/gifts).



"He was right there, and then he was gone."

The woman held up the picture of the fluffy, mixed-breed dog, her eyes welled up behind her thick glasses. Turnbull wished, not for the first time, that he was allowed to _move_ while he was on sentry duty. He didn't move. But he did try to at least make his expression _show_ that he cared.

"You stand out here every day, so I thought maybe you can keep an eye out for him. He's getting on, you know?" The tears spilled and the woman wiped them away with the palm of her hand. Lord, but the note in her voice _hurt_ ; it made his eyes threaten to sting, and he desperately did want to move and _help her_. Such things were often delicate in timing; while miracle stories of animals returning to their owners after a long absence were often retold, the reality was that it was rare and that the longer the animal was missing, the less likely it would be found.

Somehow, though, he doubted that Inspector Thatcher would approve him breaking stance to go look for a missing dog. She was often more sympathetic than she let on, but her moods were mercurial and Constable Fraser had been testing her patience a good deal lately. The odds were, as they say, not very good.

Even so.

He made a split-second decision when the woman's face fell, as he couldn't reply, and unclasped his hand, holding his arm stiffly at his side and beckoning for her to slip him the paper with his fingers.

She blinked, then apparently understood and handed it over, tears now flowing freely. "Thank you. _Thank you._ "

He held the paper behind his back the rest of his shift on the stoop; mercifully, Thatcher didn't even look his way when she passed.

 

 

"It is very close to here," he said, making sure Diefenbaker could see him talking. Though, really, he suspected that Fraser's half-wolf heard better than he let on, if not rather _selectively_. "She lives a block away. But I believe I would remember if I saw him; he's rather distinctive looking."

Dief watched with rapt fascination as Turnbull made a quick pair of sandwiches in the Consulate's kitchen. Of course, he was raptly watching the sandwich he knew to be his. Fraser had left him behind for whatever venture it was that he was going out upon with Ray Vecchio -- the second -- and he and Turnbull had often found themselves unwitting companions. They had always gotten on well, though; even just days into Turnbull's assignment here, Diefenbaker had decided that he liked the space beneath Turnbull's desk and it was one of his favored places to nap.

In those earliest days, that silent companionship had been one of the very few lighter spots. And there was more than one occasion where Turnbull found himself working his fingers through the scruff of Dief's neck with the half-wolf's head on his lap, trying to get his hands to stop shaking.

He finished the sandwich, then held it out, raising an eyebrow and then grinning. "Who's a good boy?"

Dief whuffed quietly, standing up and rolling his head up, tongue lolling, tail wagging, the doggie equivalent of a laugh. And then he quite politely took the sandwich and got to work on it.

Turnbull was certain that Fraser would be appalled at his wolf being treated like a common canine. At the very least, he would get _that_ look on his face -- Turnbull knew that look quite well -- and perhaps make some comment about Diefenbaker's dignity or lack thereof wherein he was also addressing Turnbull's. But if there was one thing Turnbull had figured out over this friendship, it was that Dief was just like any other canine in some ways and liked to play, liked to be praised, liked to be treated as a cherished pet. Between the two constables, the wolf had it very good indeed -- one to treat him with respect and dignity, and one who would throw a ball or play tug-of-war with him.

Because of that, their friendship was quite agreeable -- Turnbull had a companion who seemed to like him simply for who he was, and Dief had a companion who would indulge in all of the silly, playful things that Diefenbaker was supposed to be too dignified to enjoy, yet did.

Besides, Turnbull had gotten to the point now where he didn't so much _care_ if they thought he was a goof.

He made quick work of his own sandwich, though not nearly so quick as Dief, and then crouched. "Do you suppose you'll come with? Hm?"

Dief sat down and barked, tongue still lolling, and Turnbull got his hands into the scruff of his neck, scratching and rubbing and sending stray hairs everywhere he'd have to clean up later.

Dief licked his nose, making Turnbull wrinkle it jokingly, and they shared their own version of a grin before heading for the door.

 

The home where the woman lived was a four-plex; old brick and leaded glass windows, two stories. There was quite a lovely herb garden, as well, growing in her window and on her porch, that Turnbull could quite appreciate. On the porch were dog toys -- balls, a rope, a very well-chewed bone -- and Diefenbaker started edging that way, perhaps in a mercenary mood, before a quiet 'stop' directed at him made him whine his discontentment and come back to sit. After a moment, Turnbull softened it with a scratch behind the ears. "Oh, none of that. You have your own toys, you hardly need to steal his."

Dief looked disgruntled.

"Well. The best chance we have of finding him is you. Perhaps if we do, he will _share_ his toys." It seemed entirely reasonable, and at least Diefenbaker looked somewhat less disgruntled by that possibility. Turnbull gave his head a nudge. "Go on, see if you can't find a trail."

Turnbull was not an expert tracker; tracking in wilderness wasn't something that was taught at Depot. He had never been hunting in his life, and had no particular desire to start now. Nonetheless, he did have the picture the woman left and he did have Dief, which meant that he had most of what he needed to find the missing dog, if the dog was going to be found. That, and an abundance of time on his hands after work.

Dief went and sniffed around the yard, before promptly scent-marking the side of the steps of the porch. A defiant little move, but not against Turnbull, so he didn't say anything about it. Then, Dief started meandering across the small patch of grass, before sitting down on the sidewalk and looking expectantly towards the east, then turning his head up and back to Turnbull.

"Thank you," Turnbull answered, heading in that direction with Dief sticking close.

 

 

The neighborhoods of Chicago were varied and many, and rather endearing. There were parts that seemed to have been renovated and therefore lost some part of their charm, but there were others that were old, places where generations of families remained, and this was one of those. Small, neat lawns in front of houses, many of them brick. Children's toys made for bright bits of color in the grass. Flowers, dusky in the early fall, landscaped alongside driveways and walks. It was a pleasant walk, and it let Turnbull unwind.

Diefenbaker appeared to enjoy it as well; sometimes he would decide that something was _his_ and consequently mark it, and Turnbull supposed that if one was going to claim territory, this was a fine piece of territory to claim. He, of course, would do no such thing, but he could at least understand the desire.

Still, it was only another four blocks before they lost the trail. Dief sat down on the corner of the street, whining, and Turnbull looked around. There was a small bakery. A bar on the opposite corner. Several houses stretching up to the next intersection, where a petrol station sat. Hm.

He gave Dief another rub behind the ear, tugging briefly at the fur at his neck to get Dief to look up at him. Offering reassurance. "It's all right. Someone likely picked him up. If he's going to be found, we'll find him."

Dief whuffed his agreement, and Turnbull gave back a smile, then headed into the bakery, leaving Diefenbaker to look through the windows. No doubt longingly at some of the richer pastries on the shelves. Of course, he was barking up the wrong tree (Turnbull grinned to himself at the mental word play, silly though it was) -- nutritionally speaking, it was a bad idea, and Turnbull didn't care for sweets to begin with.

"Pretty dog," the baker said, leaning to the side to look at Dief. "Yours?"

"Ah, no. Actually, he belongs to a colleague." Turnbull offered a polite smile. "Speaking of canines, however, I was wondering if you had seen this one?" He held up the picture of the missing dog, eyebrows up.

The baker eyed it, then shook his head. "Nu uh. Cute mutt, though."

"Indeed. His owner is quite concerned, and I'm hoping to find him."

"You can leave that here and I'll put it up," the baker offered, nodding to the picture.

"I'm afraid I only have this one." Turnbull frowned briefly -- he should have thought to make copies while he was at the Consulate. If he didn't have any luck in his search, he'd go back and do just that. "Thank you anyway."

"Welcome. If I see anything, I'll go drop by that building you guys stand in front of."

Turnbull felt a smile creep up, and didn't bother shoving it down. "That would be fine, thank you kindly."

When he left the bakery, it was with two small meat pastries wrapped in tissue. Naturally, Diefenbaker wanted it immediately. For that matter, it smelled good enough that Turnbull was half-tempted to go and pick up a third for himself. Even so, he shook his head. "Not yet. We have a dog to find."

One thing he consistently liked about Dief was that Dief got his jokes. With a doggie-laugh, Dief stood up and followed as Turnbull made for the petrol station down the road.

 

 

"Looks familiar," the woman -- well, more a girl -- said, eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the picture. She could not have been much older than eighteen, and wore her hair teased to a rather startling height, but there was a shrewd, sharp look in her eyes. Absently, Turnbull thought she would make a fine police officer. "But I don't know."

"Anything you could remember would be helpful," Turnbull answered, sliding the picture across for her to study, eyebrows up a little.

The girl took the picture, studying it more closely. "We get so many people through here..."

"But you have an idea." Turnbull quirked an eyebrow higher, encouraging.

"Nah, it's stupid. I mean..."

"There are very few ideas that truly are."

The girl looked up again, grinning a little, some measure self-conscious. "I thought... well, we have cameras. Maybe..."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe we could check the tapes. They record for eight hours at a time."

Indeed. She could be a fine police officer. Turnbull nodded. "And you could perhaps look through your receipts for any purchases of dog food or the like, as well."

"Hey, that's a good idea." The girl grinned brighter, pointing at him, and he gave it back unbidden. "Okay. You check the tapes, I'll check the receipts."

 

 

Generally speaking, convenience stores attached to petrol stations tended to carry small bags of dog food, to go along with other basic necessities, kept there for those who didn't remember to get it in their regular shopping, or for those who ran out of something and had to dash out late at night. Marked higher in price than strictly necessary, of course, but in this case, it seemed to be doubly convenient -- both for whomever purchased that dog food, and for Turnbull.

The girl seemed relatively unconcerned with the idea of getting into trouble by letting a non-employee play with their closed-circuit system, a certain defiance for the greater good that Turnbull could sense instinctively simply because it...

Because it reminded him.

He shook his head at himself, and tried not to remember, focusing on the grainy video as it ran at twice it's normal speed instead.

Diefenbaker was also allowed to come in and sit, after being soundly told that he was not to help himself to any merchandise. As a reward, though, he got his pastry and laid on the cold concrete floor in the back of the station with a long, deep sigh of contentment. It wasn't desperately hot out, but with that coat and with the sun shining like it was, the cool probably was a relief. Turnbull was mostly too focused on his task to notice the discomfort, but even he appreciated the chillier air.

"All right, I've got 'em." The girl came back, holding copies of the receipts. "And that'll let you... uhm. Narrow down the times, right?"

"Exactly." Turnbull grinned, pleased, and took the receipts. "Rather than watching the whole thing, we can try to find those specific times and watch immediately before and after; of course, that might not yield anything, but it's worth a try."

"Okay." The girl nodded, quite clearly into the spirit of this venture. "I have to run the counter, but let me know? If you find anything?"

"I will. Thank you."

 

 

His eyes were aching a little by the time he found it. Turnbull didn't have a television and only rarely watched the Consulate's -- typically when he could get curling, though occasionally a documentary would catch his attention -- and staring at the screen was decidedly uncomfortable. Even when he worked on the computer, he didn't like spending more than an hour at a time on it. More than that felt like someone had decided to remove his eyeballs, rub them gently over sandpaper, and then replace them.

Even so, when the faint, blurry image of the dog sticking his head out the window of the car showed up only three hours in his immediate past, he knew. A woman got out of the car, speaking towards the dog, then headed inside -- she emerged a few minutes later with a bag, and then drove north.

He checked the receipt again, and indeed, there was a dog food purchase, both a bag of dry food and a can of wet food.

"This may be it," he commented to Dief, who was mostly, if not entirely, asleep beside the chair he was parked in. Dief grunted quietly and sighed out again.

The film was truly atrocious. But from a place Turnbull didn't often allow himself to acknowledge these days, the entirely well-practiced ability to read a license plate in very adverse conditions asserted itself, and he was able to get three letters and one number. The make and model, of course, was far easier -- it was a second generation Chevy Lumina, dark in color, though given the reflections likely not black.

He wrote the numbers on his hand then stood up, rubbing at his eyes with his other hand and wincing at the scratchiness. Dief heaved himself to his feet, shaking and then stretching, forepaws out and back bowed.

"I believe I found him," he said, to the girl behind the counter, when he came out of the back room.

The girl's eyes lit up. "You did?"

Despite himself, that look made Turnbull grin again. "Indeed. Would it be too much of an imposition to borrow your phone?"

"Nah." The girl gestured him back behind the counter, to the complete confusion of a few customers, and then bounced on her toes.

Diefenbaker, of course, sat expectantly in front of the counter. His expectations weren't in vain; every single customer that came up lavished pets on him, and one kind man bought him a Slim Jim. Turnbull went to say something, then decided not to -- mercenary though Diefenbaker was being, it wasn't interfering with anything more important, and it seemed to please the patrons just as much as it did the half-wolf. Instead, he thought for a very long moment before dialing the 2-7. It was not entirely outwith the possibility that they'd run the partial through LEADS for him, though he wasn't going to count on it. If worse came to worst, he could return to the Consulate and perhaps call someone in Ottawa and request to run it through NLETS.

"Miss Vecchio," Turnbull said, when Francesca answered the phone. "It's Constable Turnbull. Pardon if I'm calling at a busy time, but I was wondering if I could perhaps ask for a favor?"

 _"I've already had lunch,"_ she answered, half-absently.

"Ah... no. I... actually, I was wondering if you could possibly run a partial for me through LEADS. If not, that's perfectly all right, I wouldn't want to... that is, I'd hate to be a bother, particularly if you _are_ busy..." Hm. Yes. Enough babbling.

There was a long, long moment of silence on the other end. Turnbull could all but hear her disbelieving blinking. He supposed she was entitled; he had long come to the conclusion that most citizens of the city of Chicago tended to think of the RCMP as something _other_ than a police force, despite quite clearly having the 'Police' right in there. Perhaps the 'Mounted' part threw them off. _"Uh, sure, Turnbull."_

"Thank you. The vehicle is a Chevy Lumina, a '96, dark in color. It's likely local. The partial is Robert-Victor-Henry-Three, and two other numbers I was unable to identify following." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand as he heard her repeat back the information, looking to the girl. "Would you mind if I gave her the number here?"

"No, I don't mind," the girl answered, from where she was now in front of the counter and kneeling and loving on Diefenbaker. Who was unashamedly soaking in the attention. "Who's a good boy? Oh, yes you _are_. Such a good boy."

 

 

It took longer than he preferred. Not that Turnbull didn't understand -- the sheer noise and motion and chaos of the 2-7 could give anyone some measure of difficulty. He often found his own head muddled when he was there; it wasn't exactly the best work environment for focus, and frankly speaking, Turnbull had never and would never truly be comfortable behind a desk. The entirely -- mercifully -- rare occasions he had to work there left him ready to tear his own hair out in frustration. Four ridiculous numbers over a bad cell phone connection, which had ended up in him being berated more than once, had left him with a healthy desire _not_ to go there more than absolutely required of him.

"I've never seen a cop in a uniform like that," the girl -- Micky, short for Michelle -- said. As there was nothing to do right now but wait, they had struck up a conversation. "It's like those guys who stand outside of Buckingham Palace."

"The same origins." Turnbull looked down over the red dress uniform, then half-shrugged. The internal flinch at being called a cop -- despite it being a fact -- went mostly unnoticed even to him today. "This is not... ah, the typical uniform. This is a dress uniform -- Review order -- and I suppose it's my Inspector's preference that we be attired in it whilst working at the Consulate."

"Looks hot." She winced in sympathy, though he was perfectly comfortable in the air conditioning. "Pretty, though."

Turnbull looked down again. He supposed it was. It lost its wearing-appeal, though, when worn day in and day out, though he did love his high browns. They were surprisingly comfortable, if not a little hazardous on smooth surfaces, given the lack of tread on the boots. "Indeed." He looked back up again, smiling a little. "You'd make a fine police officer."

She snorted in disbelief, staring. "Me? You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head, eyebrows up.

"No. I mean, I couldn't even get a scholarship to go to community college, let alone be a _cop_."

"Yes." He closed one eye, regarding her slightly sidelong. "You've quite observant, proactive, and you think like an investigator."

Micky looked up at her four-inch high fringe, then down over her somewhat threadbare cashier's uniform. "Uh huh."

But he could hear the note of intrigue, just as certainly as she could pretend it wasn't there. The phone rang, and Turnbull went back behind the counter to answer it, but before he picked it up, he said, "That--" he nodded to her uniform, "--is a waste of talent. You could do it; I know you could."

She went to say something, but he'd already answered the phone. But apparently, Diefenbaker agreed with his assessment; the half-wolf huffed a quiet agreement, nudging at her hand with his nose. Perhaps the tag-team approach would work.

 

 

He left Micky looking thoughtful. That, in itself, made him feel good and having two likely addresses within a seven block radius was even better. It was getting well into evening, now, and Turnbull hoped that Constable Fraser wouldn't be too upset about Diefenbaker being out and about late. Then again, Fraser tended to keep rather odd hours himself. Besides, the exercise was doubtless good for Diefenbaker, and it was certainly good for Turnbull, and if they managed to find a missing dog, then all the better.

He somewhat expected that to go wrong, simply because he was _him_ , but it got very little look in compared to normal. For this time, anyway, Turnbull was managing to simply exist, far outside of the scrutiny of Thatcher and Fraser, with a half-wolf companion and a chance to interact with people. Deep down, it left some part of him almost _sad_ ; neighborhoods in Chicago were like small towns unto themselves.

He ignored it to the best of his abilities and knocked on the door of the house politely.

Well.

No. He was fairly sure this wasn't the place; the moment the man opened the door, four cats streaked out and Turnbull's somewhat expectation that something would go wrong was realized. He lost the better part of an hour tracking down the felines, and the last one was brought back by the scruff of its neck by Diefenbaker, which, of course, lead to both of them being screamed at. Even though the cat was unharmed.

"Stupid mutt, I hate them all, I should call--"

"Stop that." It was a voice Turnbull so rarely pulled out these days that it actually _startled_ him, and Diefenbaker went from bristling at his side to sitting at his heel instantly, and the man bristled and blinked before deciding perhaps he should not test that tone of voice. "The cat is fine; he was only trying to help, and to be perfectly honest, sir, your animals are your responsibility. Perhaps next time, you should use more caution opening your door. Thank you."

He didn't wait to see if the man recovered his powers of speech, just turned and walked back down the walk, reaching down to give Diefenbaker another ear-rub of reassurance as he did. Indeed. Well, now that karma had satisfied itself at their expense, perhaps the rest would go on without incident.

 

 

"He's a stray." The woman clutched the dog close to her chest, her lip quivering. A fairly young woman, not much older than Micky, only a few years younger than Turnbull. "I found him wandering."

"He's not a stray, he's just lost," Turnbull answered, holding the picture of the same dog. He felt for her. She had quite clearly gotten very attached in very short order, and Turnbull understood that -- he had some of the same tendencies himself, though he mostly curbed them. "His owner is worried. He's on in years, and it's very difficult for an animal to adjust to such things..."

The tone was gentle. He couldn't -- wouldn't -- dream of being more harsh without far better provocation than denial.

The woman looked down at the dog. Behind her, the apartment was sparse. There were still boxes sitting against the wall. Her eyes welled up and she rubbed behind the dog's ears, prompting Turnbull to auto-reach down to do the same with Diefenbaker, simply because.

"You haven't been here long... attending the University of Chicago?" he asked, taking a guess based on her age, and the boxes.

The woman looked a little startled, but then nodded, lip still trembling. "I just started."

"Where are you from?"

"Mapleton." At his apparent look of incomprehension, she added, "Minnesota."

Turnbull nodded, searching her face for a long moment. It was easy enough to see the homesickness and loneliness; it practically radiated, and even the dog she had unintentionally co-opted from his owner could sense it; he whined, and at Turnbull's heel, Dief shifted uncomfortably and leaned against his leg for a moment.

Then, the woman ducked her head, bit her lip, then looked up and nodded, breath a little shaky. "I... I guess I should take him home."

"Yes." Turnbull offered the picture out, where the address was written. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah. I mean, he's not mine." She nearly lost her composure again, hugging the smallish dog closer, then regained it. "Let me get my keys."

 

 

In the end, Turnbull accepted the ride simply because it was easier to give her directions along the way, given her relative inexperience with the area. They had barely pulled up to the curb and gotten out of the Lumina before the dog's owner came out of the door, choking on a sob, and the woman from Mapleton, Minnesota handed him over.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you so much," the owner cried, holding the squirming dog close, who was doing his best to twist in her arms to bathe her face. "There's a reward," she added, looking uncertainly between the Constable and the student, likely not sure who she should be directing that to.

"Ah, no. Thank you kindly, but I don't want one." Turnbull smiled back, taking a step back on the walk and yet again reaching down to pet Diefenbaker, who answered by nudging at his hand.

"No. I... no. It's okay," the younger woman said, smiling a shaky sort of smile that was both sad and grateful. "I'm glad he's... he's home."

"Buddy," the older woman informed, squeezing the little dog again. "Please, let me do something... I could make you tea, at least. I have biscuits."

Turnbull was quite ready to slip off and head back for the Consulate, but he took a moment to reach over and give the faintest nudge to the homesick young woman, raising his eyebrow in his best, 'Welllll....?' expression. She blinked back at him and turned red, then swallowed and nodded, voice a little cracked as she looked back at Buddy's owner. "I would like that."

"Officer?" the older woman asked, looking back at Turnbull.

"No, but thank you." Turnbull gave her a sweet little duty smile, then looked down at Diefenbaker. "I think you're ready to go home, aren't you? And I still have that other treat, though really, I saw you did quite well for yourself..." But he couldn't sound even faux-disappointed.

 

It was only a block back to the Consulate, and the sun had just settled under the horizon, leaving twilight and a cool edge on the air from the falling night. Mostly, it was a sky blocked by trees and buildings, and a world painted with the smell of urban civilization, but even so, it left something of a complex stew of emotions in Turnbull's head and heart. Diefenbaker kept pace, occasionally wanting to pause and remark his territory, but it still wasn't long before they were outside of the gate.

Turnbull looked at the dark windows, making certain no one was watching, before crouching down again. "Thank you. You were invaluable."

Dief grumbled a little, but he knew better than to go after the treat he knew he was going to get. Just fidgeted in place, claws clicking on the sidewalk, before sitting down and sniffing in the direction of Turnbull's pocket without being so insubordinate as to try to get it without it being offered.

Turnbull hiked an eyebrow at him, then tapped his nose gently with a forefinger. "It's a good thing I didn't get these before you lost the trail, isn't it?" Then he finally reached into his tunic pocket, pulling out the wrapped pastry and offering it over after unwrapping it. "Who's a good boy?"

Dief took the pastry and gulped it down, then barked outright.

"That's right. You're a good boy." Turnbull nodded, smartly, and then he was grinning. He reached out to give another scruff-scratching, only to be knocked on his rear end by a rather enthusiastic Diefenbaker, who decided that was the point to bestow another face licking. Less than pleasant, in terms of scent, but that didn't stop Turnbull from laughing. Both for the enthusiasm, and for the fact he was sprawled on the sidewalk, in red serge, with two arms full of someone else's half-wolf, after spending most of the afternoon and evening tracking down a lost dog.

It had been a good day.

They were both unaware that Fraser was watching, rather baffled, from the shadows of the window. Or, perhaps Diefenbaker was aware.

But he wasn't telling.


End file.
